variations on being sad

I wish my anger
were a physical thing:
A rock or a tear
in the fabric.
Something I could hit
or pull,
or light on fire
the way a corner of the last letter
lying on the fire arches
and burns,
shriveling up.

A silent death.

Instead I'm just sad
and my letters
give me paper cuts
instead of satisfaction.

__

I'm never ( Read more... )